


mi amigo, mi amante, mi vida.

by orphan_account



Category: Book of Life (2014), Coco (2017)
Genre: Crossover Pairings, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Might not be in complete order, One Shot Collection, Requests are Always Open, crossover AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A collection of one-shots surrounding everyone's two favorite Mexican musicians.





	mi amigo, mi amante, mi vida.

A Sánchez man is strong, courageous, fearless, bold, strong-willed and daring. A Sánchez man is caring, selfless, benevolent and compassionate. A Sánchez man is many things—but most importantly, a Sánchez man is a bullfighter, through and through.

However, there’s one thing a Sánchez man is not. He is not a musician—he does not sing or belt out a grito. He can dance, yes, but he must follow tradition—he must be a bullfighter, and kill the bull after he achieves victory. He must never be a musician.

Manolo knows this—he knows the family tradition, as his father has told him time and time again that he’s a Sánchez, he has the gift for it; and yet, it’s just not his thing. The life of a bullfighter—yelling “toro” over and over while holding a red cloth, dodging the bull's attempts at ramming his skull in before finally slaying the creature—is not for him. He isn’t cut out for it—he’ll  _never_ be cut out for it.

Music, though—music  _is_ his thing. He loves it—has loved it, ever since he was a small child. To play a guitar and sing aloud is his dream—and yet, he can never achieve it, for a Sánchez man must follow tradition. He  _must_ follow in his father's—in his ancestors’—footsteps.

But even  _if_ he’s to be a bullfighter, that doesn’t mean he still can’t enjoy music  _or_ visit the plaza during his spare time.

* * *

It’s a nice, warm summer afternoon in 1918 when Manolo visits the plaza. It’s busy and bustling as usual with mariachis, dancers and singers all gathered around, practicing their acts and showing off their skills.

Even if he’s been there many times, he’s still filled with wonder as he walks around and sees all the musicians with their instruments. The songs they sing and play are like sugar candy to his ears, whether the music is new or old.

But then, something catches Manolo off guard—a guitar’s tune, much different from the others. He looks around, searching for the source—and that’s when his eyes come across a young man, seated on a fountain in the center of the plaza.

Manolo steps forward, and slowly approaches the musician. The man’s about eighteen—the same age as him—with tan skin, black hair and a goatee. He’s holding a skull guitar in his hands, his eyes focused on the instrument as he carefully strums its strings while he sings.

“To be here with you tonight brings me joy, que alegria, for this music is my language and the world es mi familia!”

His voice is gentle, tender—sweeter than a mango. Manolo can’t help but stare at the musician in awe, while his feet tap to the beat of the song. It’s not long before he finds himself joining in, though his voice is slightly rougher than the other man’s.

“For this music is my language, and the world es mi familia…”

The musician suddenly stops playing his guitar as he looks up, and sees Manolo.

“I– I’m sorry,” Manolo apologizes, smiling sheepishly. “It’s just that– your guitar playing, it’s amazing and I couldn’t help myself—”

“—it’s fine,” the musician cuts him off, a small smile forming on his face. “And _gracias._ No one’s ever said that about my singing before.”

Manolo’s in complete and utter disbelief as he hears this. “ _No manches!_ ”

“Really.” The musician nods. “You’re the first to say that.” His smile widens a bit. “By the way, you’re a very good singer.”

“Gracias,” Manolo thanks him. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He grins for a moment, before he realizes how his sentence might have come off as too strong. “Err, I mean… uh…”

“What’s your name?” the musician asks him.

“My name– it’s Manolo,” he says, holding a hand out. “Manolo Sánchez.”

The musician grins, revealing one gold tooth amongst his pearly whites. “I’m Héctor,” he says, taking Manolo’s hand and shaking it. “Héctor Rivera.”

And so begins a new chapter in their lives, as the two’s paths finally cross.


End file.
